


one. two. three. four. five. six. seven. eight.

by hophophop



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Joan is not a reliable narrator, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-15 21:04:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3461948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hophophop/pseuds/hophophop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>“I don’t really know what else there is to say.”</em><br/>The last thing she remembered was Sherlock forcing the words from her, making her state the obvious: "Andrew died because he knew me."</p>
            </blockquote>





	one. two. three. four. five. six. seven. eight.

**Author's Note:**

> I was whining about having to wait for the end of beanarie's latest [heartbreaking work of staggering genius](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3468551) (it's finished now: go read it and weep), and she ~~rudely~~ kindly gave me a prompt to while away the time: Joan slept on the couch after Andrew died.

_one. two. three. four. five. six. seven. eight._

The sound of her jacket's heavy zipper hitting the floor startled her, and Joan blinked, unable to recall getting to her apartment from the station. The last thing she remembered was Sherlock forcing the words from her, making her state the obvious: "Andrew died because he knew me." He’d refrained from doing the same, so the unstated "I told you so" she imagined stayed behind with him when the elevator doors slid shut. _one. two. three. four_ —

Her phone buzzed, and she found a dozen texts from the station she hadn't noticed: Gregson and dispatch. Apparently they had expected her to wait for an escort back. Hadn't she done that? She looked behind at the closed door. The deadbolt was engaged by someone, her, presumably. Not that that meant anything, according to Sherlock's complaints about the lock. Didn't matter. Nothing she did was enough, in the end. _one. two. three. four. five. six. seven. eight._

There wasn't anything left to do, now. She had counted the beats until the ambulance arrived and the EMTs took over. She counted when they said she couldn't ride with and when the police showed up and closed the cafe around them, and Andrew was gone. Wasn't he? And then she was at the station. Or no, she was at a hospital at one point. Before? _one. two. three. four. five. six_ — She had pushed herself upright, groggy, an ache in her arm and a band aid over an injection site. Bright lights and bustle that made her wince. Then Sherlock was there, and Marcus. Questions and answers all in a blur. _one. two. three. four. five. six. seven. eight._ Then Sherlock said "poison."

Time passed, probably. Sherlock handed her clothes, food, tea. She'd been bumped, the cafe had video, the woman identified and March's company on her visa. The world shifted then, brittle and clear, the count muffled behind glass. Clothes, food, again. The Mittals did not ask her to speak at the funeral. It wasn't her place to make arrangements, share their grief, plan what to say. What future was there to talk about? None for Andrew. All she could do was react. _one. two. three. four. five. six. seven. eight._

The only person she told without being prompted was Elana March, who did her the courtesy of stating the obvious in reply: “It must feel terrible.” That seemed right.

Later, Gregson said, “we'll keep you safe,” and that seemed wrong. She would have been insulted but for the opportunity it gave to walk away. Sherlock pressed up against the glass, and she could tell he was trying not to break it, as if he couldn't see it was already shattered, shards crunching under foot. _one. two. three. four. five. six. seven. eight._ Whatever he expected from her, at least he knew safety was beside the point.

Now in the apartment she couldn't remember entering, she stepped over her jacket and stripped off the other layers that contained the Joan Watson who counted beats, answered questions, let people die. _one. two. three. four. five. six. seven. eight._

Nothing had washed away when pain burst on her tongue, and she felt the violent shivers under water run icy over skin still red from scalding. She never cared that Andrew used her razor sometimes. Was she supposed to? She stepped out of the shower and dripped on the tile floor, shuddering. _one. one. one. one_ —

The automatic timer clicked the living room lamp on, and she remembered what to do next: towel, hair, clothing. Half a step into the bedroom, and she halted. The bed. There were other rhythms there, breaths and bodies and heartbeats at odds with her count. Andrew was in there because he wasn't. She skirted the room to get underwear and pajamas and closed the doors. There was already a pillow and blanket on the couch; she dimly remembered sleeping there. Last night? Had she slept? Six days ago, she'd told Elana. Was that today? Must have slept one of those days, but that wasn't the count she kept. _one. two. three. four. five. six. seven. eight._

Another click and the room went dark. She turned her head, and damp hair slid, clammy, across her cheek. A hand to touch the top of her head where it was almost dry, and no memory of reaching the couch, tucking up legs, draping the blanket, waiting. Time made no sense any more, but it didn't matter. She could still count.

_one. two. three. four. five. six. seven. eight. one. two. three. four. five. six. seven. eight._


End file.
